


A Hunter Among Hobbits

by rabbitinthewoods



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitinthewoods/pseuds/rabbitinthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief look at Bilbo as a child with his extraordinary mother, and Bilbo as an adult trying to remember her teachings among extraordinary dwarves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hunter Among Hobbits

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No, I don't own any of it, more's the pity.  
> I just wanted to write something about Bilbo and Belladonna, and this is what I got.

When he was very young Bilbo had spent much time in the company of his mother, Belladonna Baggins, which was normal and expected of younger hobbits. His mother, with Bilbo in tow, had always taken time to visit her Took relatives over the Water in Tookborough, quite acceptable by the standards of larger Hobbit society. The Tooks, an adventurous and queer lot by any Hobbit’s reckoning, spent much of their time in the company of Elves, Dwarves, and one peculiar wizard. Gandalf the Grey. Which was less acceptable, commented on often and said to be a cause of much of the Took’s Tookish nature. Including many lads and lasses who, to the bewilderment of the much of the rest of the Shire, ran off to have _adventures_.

Bilbo discovered quite early on that his mother was no exception.

“It was to do with Rangers,” she told him, and Bilbo wound not often go a day without his mother telling him some snippet of her adventure. His father was not entirely comfortable with it, and countered by informing Bilbo about the fauna and flora of the Shire, the best way to cook a potato and how to trace his ancestry back to venerable and respected hobbits. Which his mother would re-counter by always, _always_ taking him to see Gandalf the Grey whenever he appeared in the Shire. His father would laugh, content in defeat, and tell his wife “Not to put too many wild ideas into our boys head, Bella.”

Bilbo was obedient in many things, but never quite in that.

“Elves,” Gandalf would mutter between his whiskers, pipe firm between his thumb and finger, “are a graceful, musical sort,” and then go on to recite an elvish poem to the bundle of Hobbit lads and lasses crowded at his feet.

So Bilbo would return home with a head fit to bursting with ideas, to the delight of his mother and the fond consternation of his father. He once asked his mother if there had been any elves on her adventure. Belladonna had paused in her knitting and regarded him with a solitary raised brow.

“There was one,” she told him quietly “a women with remarkable skill with a long sword. She taught me how to throw stones as well as I can, you know. I can kill a moving sparrow at three hundred paces.” This had distracted Bilbo enough that it wasn’t until they had left Bag End and been throwing stones at surprised wildlife for twenty minutes that he thought to ask any more.

He stopped, rolling a good sized stone in his small hand. “Was she beautiful?”

His mother looked at him, and corrected his stance. “Yes,” she said as she moved his legs about, “very. As beautiful as the moon on a clear, cool night. She was very kind to me.” Bilbo waited until he was standing as she wanted, then lobbed his stone at what he thought was a robin but on further inspection turned out to be a pinecone.

“Good shot, Bilbo.”

He huffed, but passed over complaining about his catch for another question. “Gandalf said that elves marry big-folk sometimes. Was she married?”

Belladonna laughed, and Bilbo found himself swept off the grass in an unexpected hug.

“Would you like an elf bride Bilbo?” Bilbo thought his mother was finding this far more amusing than it actually was, but her laughter was infectious and he couldn’t stop a smile.

“Well, you said they were pretty.”

His mother threw them both upon the soft grass and continued laughing. “Exceedingly. They take your breath away, and are stubborn about giving it back. Graceful as swans. I think I saw her drop something _once_ , whereas I felt I was dropping everything anyone every handed to me.”

“Mum!” Bilbo proceeded to prod his mother’s forehead with a small finger. “Was she _married_? To one of the Rangers maybe?”

“Not to one of the Rangers, no. But she was married.”

Bilbo had become quite impatient and lined his face up with his mother’s so they were nose to nose. “Who then?”

Grasping his face in both hands, his mother whispered so he almost didn’t hear. “A dwarf.”

Both hobbits were quiet for a moment. An anxious squirrel kept watch as his kin fled across the field.

“A dwarf.” Bilbo stared as his mother nodded. “A dwarf? You mean one of those merchants from Waymoot?”

Belladonna scoffed. “They are more than merchants among them, my boy.” She went on to tell him about the great dwarven smiths and warriors, kings with hair treaded with precious jewels and miners who followed ore lines by the echo of the rock. Bilbo learnt a dwarven war cry, and wondered over a race where even the women had beards. Meandering through it all was one dwarven warrior his mother had fought beside before Bilbo was born, who had taught her how to fix leather armour with thread and sheer determination and somehow, to Bilbo’s astonishment, had the love of an elf.

“Did they love each other a lot?”

Belladonna chuckled, and carded a calloused hand through his hair. “Yes Bilbo. Fiercely. I’ve rarely seen a love that could touch it.”

* * *

Kili’s challenge almost seems to sit, weighted, in the air between them, as if Bilbo could grasp it and examine it. But he can’t, so he continues to puff his pipe, unsure how to respond. The rest of the company is watching now, as subtly as dwarves can. He regards the forest detritus on the ground. Selecting a smooth, reasonably symmetrical stone, he tries to figure out exactly what in the Shire he thinks he’s doing and resolutely ignores Nori’s shout.

“Five silver says the hobbit misses.”

He takes his pipe out from between his teeth, flipping the stone slowly in his hand. “One hundred paces?” Kili nods, so Bilbo moves what he thinks is a little over one hundred paces away from the oak tree and readies his stance.

What is he doing? This is going to be terribly embarrassing.

Taking a last fortifying puff of Old Toby, he pulls his arm back and flings the stone at the unfortunate squirrel. There’s a surprising crack, and Bilbo takes another puff of pipe weed as the squirrel tumbles out of the tree. Even from here he can tell it is quite dead. He is pleased with himself. Coins change hands behind him, the majority going to a chuckling wizard.

“Hobbits,” the wizard says, “are a notoriously skilled lot when it comes to throwing stones.” The only present hobbit nods his agreement, tucking a thumb behind his bracers. Gandalf continues. “Why, Bilbo’s own mother, Belladonna Took, once took out an entire orc pack with nothing but stones and a good deal of running.” There are some raised eyebrows, and the company looks almost amazed.

Bilbo feels this paints a rather grander picture than his mother would be comfortable with. “Well, yes, but not an entire pack. She did run some of them over a cliff first. They thought she was going to eat them.” He isn’t sure, but it appears as if the dwarves look even more impressed and, perhaps, confused. Which doesn’t at all make sense. He clarifies. “They’d never met hobbits before. Thought we were carnivorous.” He laughs, but quiets himself when none of the others join in.

Gandalf mutters to himself, and in order to do something in a silence rapidly growing awkward Bilbo walks forward to inspect his catch. It’s not large, but he supposes it will bulk up one of Bombur’s stews a bit.

“Would you hit another, Master Baggins?” Kili has crouched next to him, glancing between him and the squirrel. “To prove it wasn’t a lucky shot.”

Hobbits, a certain wizard will tell you, have little pride. Pride is a thing largely found in men and dwarves, and elves that do not get out enough. Hobbits have almost no pride to be found. Save in their mastery of horticulture, of almost silent movement and of precisely hitting a target with almost any projectile they might happen upon.

Bilbo scoffs. “A lucky shot? That shall be the last time you use those words with me Master Kili.” So he selects another stone and walks back two hundred paces, and within little time at all there are two more squirrels and a robin added to his catch.

Kili looks happily impressed, and claps a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Well, Mr Baggins, it seems you’re a hunter among hobbits!” Bilbo’s chest puffs outward a bit, and he accepts the praise with a small smile.

Fili picks up the robin and tosses it to Bombur. “How many do you think you could take down in twenty minutes?”

Soon enough the entire company are calling out targets, some more inventive than others, and Bilbo is letting stones fly left and right. Critters, birds, acorns and a few weak braches tumble to the soft ground and Bilbo feels as if he is getting lighter and faster with each throw. _Rapid release_ , he remembers his mother saying, _feel the flow of the wind, adjust,_ and it’s almost like he’s back in a field with her, dancing around and flinging stones together with such speed that Bilbo thought no eye could track them.

He stops long after his twenty minutes are up, and the last frightened creature has fled or fallen. Bifur appears to be juggling some of the acorns Bilbo brought down, an unexpected sight, and Bombur is chortling merrily at the idea of the extra meat he shall add to their dinner. Bilbo laughs, content, drinking up the surprised praise the dwarves give him like he would a good aged wine; slowly, and with great appreciation.

A hand descends onto his shoulder, and he looks up to see Gandalf’s great grey beard. “My dear boy,” the wizard says, low enough that only Bilbo can hear him, “I think that were your mother here, she would be most proud to see her son such a fine marksman.”


End file.
